DEAR MR. PUNCH,--As the friend of my family from 1846, I ask you for
advice on a subject which touches me painfully both as a husband and a
father. My wife is, as I personally know, the dearest woman in Great
Britain, and our child is, I am credibly informed, the finest child in
Europe. _Infandum renovare dolorem._
Our child is four months old; it is named Eunice. Yesterday I found my
dear wife with the infant weeping piteously--my wife, that is, not the
infant. I proceeded at once to use all the means in my power to soothe
her and to ascertain the reason of her unhappy state. But it was only
after a considerable time and the expenditure of no little ingenuity on
my part that she revealed the secret.
"I knew how it would be, John," she said between her sobs, "I knew from
the first. I felt sure that, when baby came you wouldn't care for her.
And--and you _don't_."
I at once took the child in my arms and guggled to it. The child, I am
happy to tell you, Sir, responded at once to my paternal attention and
guggled happily in reply. I felt patriotic pride in the part I had taken
in adding to the womanhood of my beloved country.
A few days later I found my wife sobbing violently. Carrying the child
with me--it was still guggling--I crossed to her and again used my best
endeavours, not only in consolation, but to ascertain the cause of her
fresh unhappiness. Again it was long before I obtained a reply. But at
last she said: "I knew how it would be, John," her sobbing was as
violent as before, "I knew from the first. I felt sure that when baby
came you would only care for her and neglect me."
Now, Sir, what shall I do?
Your inquiring admirer,
Matthew Haile.
P.S.--My wife is sobbing again as I write. I have at last ascertained
her trouble. It is that I don't care for the baby.
* * * * *
"The other night a rabbit ran for a quarter-of-a-mile in the
flare of a lighted motor-car on the Eggleston road."--_Teesdale
Mercury._
"I hope," puffed the rabbit, well within record at the end of the
fourteenth lap, "I hope it won't burn itself out before I've finished."
* * * * *
"To accomplish this distance at an average speed of 20 miles per
hour would take 281/2 hours. To this time, however, had to be
added the Channel crossing both ways, which takes, roughly,
about eight hours."--_Motor Cycling._
"Roughly" is good, alas!
* * * * *
It is difficult to order our emotions as we would have them be. Try as
we will, we cannot read aloud the following extract from _The Birmingham
Weekly Post_ with the solemnity which properly it should call forth:--
"A feature of the programme was the opening chorus. During this
a lady gardener in male attire arrived on the stage with a
wheelbarrow full of vegetables, and caused amusement by throwing
these among the audience. Presently the missiles commenced to
hit persons, one victim, being the vicar, who, struck in the eye
by a turnip, was compelled to retire."
* * * * *